


In Moments of Quiet

by DCBrierton



Category: Gilmore Girls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:12:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCBrierton/pseuds/DCBrierton
Summary: Rory learns that she has been engaged to Paris for several years. She is less than enthusiastic about this news.





	In Moments of Quiet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anthusiasm (HalfwayDecentFanfiction)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HalfwayDecentFanfiction/gifts).



> While there are divergences between this universe and canon starting much earlier, the main action in the story takes place near the end of season 5, and that's where events really start to look different to Rory. 
> 
> Thanks to Anthusiasm for the great prompt, and to Vorsoisson for the thoughtful beta.

Rory chokes on her coffee. As she gasps for breath, she wonders if the hypoxia-induced dizziness could be responsible for what she just heard. No, wait, she heard it before she got dizzy.

“Napkin?” Grandpa asks brightly, handing Rory a stack of several, even though there’s already a basket full of them on the cafe table between them.

“Sure!” Rory replies automatically, mopping up the coffee-spit that now seems to be everywhere. Wait, she thinks, she’s acting normal, but what she just heard is not normal. But Grandpa looks normal. Maybe she imagined what she just heard? Maybe she misinterpreted something? There’s only one way to find out. “Grandpa?” she asks, “Can you say that again?”

“Napkin?”

“No, before that?”

“Oh! Certainly. I was asking whether you and Paris had set a date yet. Your grandmother was thinking the summer after you graduate would be appropriate, and she says that securing a venue in advance is very important these days.”

Rory has a sinking feeling she heard correctly. But she pushes a little farther, just to check. “Uh, I don’t think so, Grandpa. A date for what?”

“Oh, for your wedding, of course!” Grandpa smiles, clearly not receiving the deeply-weirded-out vibes that Rory is sending. 

That’s not going to last for long, though. Rory can feel the confusion in her chest struggling to get out, along with another uncomfortable feeling she can’t place. “Grandpa, we’re roommates! We’re not getting married. We’re not even dating. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that if we were getting married you’d be so supportive. And I do like Paris a lot. But I like her as a friend! I’m actually dating Logan—you remember Logan, right?—and Paris is dating Doyle, you don’t know him, he’s the editor at the Daily News. So why, uh, why do you and Grandma think we’re planning a wedding?”

“Oh dear, I’m so embarrassed.” Rory can see Grandpa twisting his hands under the table. “Emily told me to let her tell you, but I thought—well, I thought she must have done so by now.”

Rory waits for the actual explanation, but it isn’t coming. She takes a deep breath, hearing Mom’s voice in her head reminding her that Richard never tells anyone what’s really going on until he's pushed. “What was she going to tell me?” Rory asks, fighting to keep her voice calm.

“Well, that you’re engaged. You and Paris. Emily and I set it up, back when you were at Chilton. I wasn’t sure it was the right thing, but Emily said—”

“You did what?!” Rory yells, even though the rational part of her brain is trying to point out that more information would be useful in this situation, and if she let Richard keep talking, she might get it. “Does Mom know?”  Oh. Yes. That would be helpful information. Good.

“Well, I wouldn’t think so,” Richard says, perfectly calmly, a calm that is not making any sense. “You know, she isn’t very fond of the family traditions. I myself wasn’t sure it was the best idea, I mean, it certainly is what’s  _ done, _ you know, but it didn’t work out with me and Pennilyn, and it didn’t work out with your mother and Christopher… But Emily was so certain about you and Paris, and you two do seem to be getting along...”

I did not sign up for this, Rory thinks. This wasn’t part of the deal, not the Chilton deal, not the Yale deal. But somehow she doesn’t want to make more of a scene than she already has. “I—I have to go,” she gets out, somehow keeping her voice at a normal volume, and rushes out of the cafe, trying not to run into anything or look more obviously distressed than she has to. Behind her, she dimly hears Richard calling for her to stop. But she’s already out the door, too upset to look back.

Rory storms back to the dorm, her mind still stuttering over what she’s learned. How could she have been so naive? How could no one have told her? How could no one have even mentioned it? Why didn't she listen to he mother all those times she warned Rory about her grandparents' schemes, about the ways things are done differently in their social class than in Stars Hollow? Why didn't Mom warn her that this was coming? Wait, did Mom warn her that this was coming? Was that part of the Puppetmaster thing? She can't even remember. She needs to focus. She needs more coffee. Hey, there's the coffee stand!

Ordering coffee is only a brief distraction, although digging enough coins out of her purse to pay for it takes a little longer. As soon as Rory's walking again, her mind circles back to the—to the totally nonconsensual, unfair, and antiquated marriage arrangement thing, and suddenly she's wondering, does Paris know? Oh, god, what if Paris knows? No, Paris can't know. There's no way that wouldn't have come up. Like, hey Rory, I hope you don't mind if Doyle and I make out on the couch, I know we're engaged but I've seen you with your tongue down enough throats that I just figured we're keeping it casual. Well, not exactly like that.

Her hand is on the door to the suite when she realizes, Paris lives here. She lives here with Paris. How can she go inside with her mind still going in these circles? But also, how can she not go inside? She needs to bury herself in her bed and not come up until the world makes some kind of sense, which might be never, but at least she needs to try. She can’t do that in the hallway, can she? Maybe she could! No, she can’t. Rory swallows and starts to turn the doorknob. She’ll just go quickly through into her room. She’ll act busy, like she needs to study or something. She probably does need to study. It will be fine.

“Rory!” Paris jumps up from the couch. “Where were you, I’ve been waiting for you!”

Rory freezes. Act natural, she thinks. “Uh, I went out for coffee? What’s going on?”

“You went out for coffee hours ago, Gilmore. In case you haven’t noticed, exams are looming. Now is not the time for your charming little romance with Huntzberger. I made a study schedule.” Paris is gesticulating wildly at a whiteboard that Rory vaguely notices is covered with color-coded diagrams, and she’s still talking about something—Rory can see her mouth moving—but somehow Rory’s auditory processing is stuck on “charming little romance,” playing over in a loop. Is there a subtle message there? But Paris doesn’t do subtle. Does she?

“Rory. Rory! What’s going on in there?” Uh-oh. Rory blanked out for too long, now Paris is right up in her face. “Do you understand the schedule?”

“Uh, sure, Paris. I just think, um, I’m not feeling so well. I don’t think I can just jump right into it this morning, you know? I’m just going to go lie down for awhile. But I can meet you for”—Rory skims the schedule on the whiteboard—“essay sprints after lunch.”

Paris takes a quick step back. “You’re not feeling well? Should I call Nanny? A cold right now could really interfere with your performance on your exams, you know.”

“No!” Rory yelps, panicked. Having someone hover over her does not work with her plans. “No, I think all I need is a nap. Bye, Paris!” She beats a hasty retreat into her room, Paris following her with a flood of advice about cold prevention and offers of zinc lozenges that Rory pretends not to hear. She closes the door and leans against it until she hears Paris retreat back toward the couch, then collapses sideways onto her bed, pulling the pillow over her head. Why, why, is this her life?

* * *

Rory spends the next hour trying to wrap her head around the situation and come up with a Plan For Addressing It. Problematically, every time she tries to really think things through, her mind starts to slip away, dwelling on that time the Munsters joined a country club, or how they get ships into bottles, or the political situation in Argentina. She starts three pro/con lists (Disowning My Grandparents, Running Away To Become A Professional Speed Eater, and Marrying Paris) and throws them all out. She hears a door close and spends ten minutes listening to be sure the coast is clear, before practically running through the lounge on her way to lunch.

Unfortunately, forty minutes, two burritos, and a large bowl of ice cream later, she’s headed back to work on essay sprints. On the plus side, essay sprints are not a talking activity. On the minus side, she’s going to have to read Paris’s efforts and give her constructive feedback. Paris is a beast for constructive feedback in the lead-up to exams, meaning both that she insists on receiving it and also that she fights each piece tooth-and-nail. It’s not really fun, but at least it should keep Rory’s mind off… other things.

By the end of the afternoon, Rory is trying to defend her choice to include references to the Smurfs in an essay about Spinoza’s view of political philosophy. While she’s stuttering something  about their demonstration of the role of emotions in human motivation, Paris is yelling something about Rory not taking any of this seriously, does she not care about her future? Suddenly Rory can’t take it anymore. She stands up. “My future is none of your business!” she yells back, shocking herself and causing Paris to stop in midsentence, her mouth agape. “I need a break!” Paris picks up a bag of chips from the table and holds it out to Rory, mutely, still staring at her. “No! Not a snack break!” Rory storms into her room and slams the door. Why didn’t she take the chips? She _is_ hungry. What’s she even going to do in here, start more pro/con lists? She pulls the top one out of the trash. “Marrying Paris,” it says. Neat columns marked pro and con. Nothing is written in either column.  Rory grabs a pen and adds “infuriating” to the “con” column. Then, out of a sense of fairness, “organized” to the “pro” column. Then she balls it back up and throws it back in the trash. She can’t do this.

There’s a knock on her door. “Rory?” Paris sounds quiet and a little hesitant. “Do you want your essays back?”

Rory sighs and stands up. “Sure,” she says, opening the door and snaking a hand through so she doesn’t have to actually see Paris. She pulls her had back in with the pile of papers Paris has handed to her and closes the door. On top is a printout detailing the signs of burnout, with “fatigue,” “illness,” “lack of concentration,” and “irritability” highlighted. “Great,” mutters Rory to herself. “I’m not burned out!” she yells, in case Paris is still hovering outside the door.

“Are you sure?” Paris replies, confirming Rory’s suspicions. “Because burnout is real, and if you’re going to be like this for the rest of the semester I need to adjust my study schedule. If you want to mess up your own exams, that’s your issue, but I can’t let you affect mine. Med schools care about these things!”

“I’ll get it together, Paris, I promise. I just—I didn’t have coffee with Logan this morning, I had it with Grandpa. And he really threw me for a loop.”

“Is it Emily?” Paris bursts through the door, stepping past Rory to sit on the bed. “At her age there are a lot of things to worry about, you know. Is it cancer? Does Emily have cancer and you didn't tell me? Rory, you have to tell me these things!”

Paris’s worried face makes Rory feel a little lighter. “Paris! It's not Grandma, Grandma is fine! I mean, not fine—she's insane. But she doesn't have cancer.” Maybe she does have cancer, Rory thinks. Brain cancer would explain a lot.

“There's a lot to worry about mentally too, as people get older,” Paris says, her face still totally serious. “If she's behaving erratically, it may indicate memory problems.”

“Oh my god, I didn't mean it, Paris. She's fine. Just normal crazy, you know.”

Paris is silent for a moment. Rory sits down on the bed herself, trying to reclaim her room. She pages through her practice essays, hoping Paris will take the hint and go away.“Then what's wrong?” Nope, apparently not.

Rory takes a deep breath. “He told me that we're engaged. That he and Grandma arranged it with your parents while we were still at Chilton.” She waits for an explosion. “Paris, talk to me!” Rory dares a look at Paris’s face. She looks confused. That's good, confused makes sense.

“And that's all? That's it? That's the problem?” Okay, no, this doesn't make sense.

“Um, yes! They arranged a marriage for me and didn't even tell me! What do I look like, a more vapid Kate Middleton?”

Rory doesn't intend to stop her rant—she's just getting warmed up—but Paris breaks in when she pauses for breath. “Well, a little. And obviously, with that farm boy you were dating... But that's it? He didn't say—they aren't trying to break the arrangement?”

“What? No, we pretty much stalled out on _they arranged a marriage for me and didn't even tell me_. That's insane! We were in high school! I didn't even like you!” Rory notices Paris gathering her breath. “Okay, I liked you, but we were rivals! We were fighting constantly! Not cute fighting, actual fighting! We were not relationship material. And they didn't tell me! You don’t arrange a marriage for someone and just not tell them!”

“No, you’re right, you don’t.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Rory looks up at Paris. There’s something unsettling about the look on her face, and then Rory realizes—“Wait, did your parents tell _you_?”

“Yes, of course. My mother told me. She’d been looking to arrange something, but options were limited, you know, because of the divorce—"

“Not because the whole practice is insane?” Rory can’t help but interrupt.

“More insane than allowing 18 year olds to choose life partners for themselves? Please. Look at the boys you’ve dated! Even I’ve made some regrettable choices.” Rory nods. Paris has definitely made regrettable choices. “Anyway, options were limited and she thought she’d have to wait for the gossip to die down, but then after we did the play together your grandparents approached her. She was thrilled. I’ll admit, it took me awhile to warm up to the idea…”

Rory can’t place the look on Paris’s face as she trails off. It’s infuriating, the whole situation is infuriating, and she feels a flash of warmth for her rejected pro/con list. “So you’re just—okay with that now? Your mother making that decision for you? Paris! You’re the most stubborn person I know!”

“Thank you.”

“So why are you okay with that? Why haven’t you done something about it? Why haven’t you—why haven’t you said anything to me about it?” Rory feels, absurdly, neglected, as if she and Paris are really in this together and Paris has let her down.

“I would have! I thought you knew! I thought that was why you chose Yale—an unacceptably sentimental choice, by the way, I would have waited for you to finish at Harvard. I thought—”

“Wait, you thought I went to Yale because we were engaged? And I didn’t want to be away from you? Paris!” Rory wails.

“Well, if I’d been accepted to Harvard, where would you have gone?” Rory can tell Paris believes her own argument is perfectly reasonable. “It’s part of the reason I pulled strings to have us room together. Before that, I hadn’t realized you were such a romantic.” Rory doesn’t respond. Paris’s confidence slowly falls off her face. “But I guess you weren’t, if you didn’t know this whole time.”

“No, I _didn’t_ know. And you didn’t tell me,” says Rory, her voice hard. “And I think it’s time for you to leave my room now.”

Paris stands up. “Okay,” she says, “Fine. Will you be joining me for flashcard time at seven?”

Rory groans. The schedule, always with the schedule. “Not tonight. Out. Now.” She rolls over and covers her head with the pillow as Paris closes the door. What a mess.

* * *

Rory’s getting into an avoiding-Paris rhythm: head to breakfast while Paris is doing her morning affirmation tape, eat quickly and stay out of the room until she knows Paris to be in class. Drop into the newspaper office as little as possible, and unless it’s for a meeting, always when Paris is booked elsewhere. Evenings are the hardest, being the time when Paris is least scheduled, but Rory picks up the habit of always being on the phone—or at least pretending to be on the phone—as she walks into the suite, so she has an excuse to head straight through the common area. Sure, she’s had a couple of pretend conversations with her mom that she unexpectedly had to follow through on when Paris turned out to be in their room instead of at Doyle’s, but that’s hardly unusual. After almost two years of living with Paris, there are some things that Rory’s just gotten used to out of self-defense, and advanced avoidance maneuvers is apparently one of them. In fact, it’s kind of normal-feeling. Kind of.

So everything’s going fine (well, not fine, but close enough), until reading period begins. Rory dodges the first two days by going home for the weekend, bringing a carload of miscellaneous stuff and two boxes of books to keep her busy with studying. She has a vague hope that maybe she’ll be able to stay until exams start, but by Sunday night she realizes there are books she’s forgotten at the dorm, and things she needs out of the library, and this is why Yale is not a commuter school. And worse, she's been blocking Grandma and Grandpa's calls, but at home the answering machine just picks up, and hearing them talk into it trying to justify their behavior is almost worse than having a conversation with them, even when Mom's there to commiserate. So Monday morning she finds herself carting her two boxes of books back into her room, no protective-phone-maneuver engaged, because she just can’t manage the extra object.

Which is why, while she’s trying to balance the boxes and close the suite door at the same time, she can’t pretend she doesn’t notice Paris. “Rory!” she exclaims, jumping up from the couch and rushing to take the boxes out of Rory’s hands. “I’ve been hoping to talk to you. I think—"

Rory lets Paris take the books from her, but she’s not about to go down this rabbithole. “Paris. I’m still mad at you. I’m not ready for whatever this is.” She folds her arms.

Paris sets the boxes carefully on the coffee table, then looks back at Rory. Her shoulders are a little hunched, and her eyes keep wavering between Rory’s face and her shoes. “I know you’re mad. I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. I should—I should have realized that Lorelei didn’t raise you to expect an arrangement like—like this one. I should have checked in with you to make sure it was okay—I was okay for you. I know I’m a lot to handle.”

Rory, who was starting to feel relief at Paris’s apology, is dashed on the harsh rocks of reality. “You’re a lot to handle? _That’s_ what you’re sorry for?” After the words are out of her mouth, she wonders why she’s objecting to a statement she’s made herself many times, and heard from others at least as often.

It does seem to snap something in Paris back to normal, though. “Pay attention, Gilmore! I’m not sorry I’m a lot to handle, I’m sorry _I didn’t bring it up to you_. Which, if I had done, would have solved your big objection to nobody telling you you were engaged. Not, by the way, that I think you would have reacted any more reasonably if they told you at the time. But I talked to Terrance, and he pointed out that the reason I hadn’t discussed our engagement with you was my own cowardice and insecurity, and I want to be better than that. So I’m sorry that I wasn’t more straightforward.” Paris pauses.

Rory’s not sure what to say, whether to keep fighting or just accept the apology, which is probably, knowing Paris, the best she’s going to get. “Thanks,” she says, “but I don’t think I’m the unreasonable one here. And I meant it, I’m not ready for—this.” She waves her arms to try to indicate the whole conversation. “I don’t want to talk about our—our ‘engagement’, okay?”

“Focusing on finals, uh-huh, I got it,” Paris says, nodding. “I can work with that.”

“Well, good!” Rory raises her voice a little, trying to wrest back control of the conversation. Somehow it feels like it’s slipping away from her, despite Paris’s apparent agreement. “Anyway, it’ll only be a week. Then we’re out of each other’s way for the summer.”

“It’s an important week, though.” Paris bends to shuffle through some papers on the coffee table. “I made you a schedule. You’re behind, because of the weekend.”

“I’m not behind! I studied in Stars Hollow!”  Rory protests automatically.

“Oh please,” Paris folds her arms. “You and Lorelei probably took a break every hour for takeout and gossip. Anyway, you’re certainly behind on your peer-review tasks.” She points to a green-highlighted line on Sunday’s schedule and hands Rory a printout that looks like an outline for an essay. “And I’m waiting to review whatever you have for me.”

Rory automatically reaches for the outline. “You didn’t have someone else read it?”

“I did, but Doyle is addled with lust for me. I can’t trust his judgement. And who else was I going to ask? Nanny?”

“See this? This is why you need other friends.”

“I’ll take that under advisement. So you’ll read it?”

“Yes, Paris, I’ll go over it.” Rory covers a smile by examining the schedule Paris made her. “ _After_ I go pick up some books from the library.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Paris, apparently mollified, returns to her nest on the couch. “Don’t forget to give me your outlines when you have them.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rory mutters, already half out the door. So Paris trusts her judgement. She supposes she knew that. Although she does apparently think Rory has no idea how to study without Paris crafting her a carefully organized schedule. It’s kind of sweet, though, the schedule—it even has blocks built in for seeing Logan. Rory’s going to have to tell Paris she’s broken up with him. God, that’s such a mess. She doesn’t even want to think about the whole marriage-arrangement landscape. And Paris. Especially not Paris at 16 worrying she was too much for Rory to handle and not saying anything. It just… it doesn’t fit right? Or it fits too right, and that is _it_ , she is _not thinking about it_ , oh, good, finally, the library. Work. She pulls out the list of call numbers she wrote out last night and heads in.

* * *

Rory’s exams are all over a couple of days before the end of exam period, although her philosophy professor has given them until the last hour of the last day to hand in their essays. When she came back to campus, she’d planned to flee to Stars Hollow immediately after the last exam was over. But by the time she’s exiting the last exam, she’s re-thinking that. For one thing, she hasn’t packed yet. For another, the past week has been surprisingly normal, even almost peaceful. And it should be easier to stay on schedule with that last essay on campus, with Paris’s company instead of her mother’s. Plus, the answering machine. Mom says Grandma's messages are getting kind of weird, full of sappy stuff about how important it is to her that Rory be happy, and Rory is just not ready to listen to that firsthand yet, even through the answering machine.

The only problem is, well, Paris. Well, not Paris herself—she’s been surprisingly low-drama this semester, only melting down before her bio exam yesterday instead of before every exam like last semester. The problem with Paris is, Rory can’t stop thinking about her. And not just thinking about her, which kind of makes sense in that they haven’t talked again about the whole ‘engagement’ thing, and Rory’s still uncomfortable with it, and she’s never been good at just letting things run their course. Though she is thinking about her that way too. It’s just, every time she does think about Paris, whether it’s to check when they’re scheduled to run flashcards together or to practice her approach to explaining that she really, truly does not think they should get married, she also thinks about… other stuff. Kissing stuff. Paris’s lips being all soft and warm. Paris’s tongue pushing into Rory’s mouth. Her aggressive approach to just about everything. Her hands, never still unless she’s focused on keeping them from moving. How they would—Rory shakes her head to clear it. See! That! That’s the problem. Thinking about Paris doing kissing stuff. Gross! Doing it with Rory. Also gross!

So Rory has just about decided that the best course of action is to stay at school until her essay’s done, with easy access to the library and no Mom to distract her, at least, assuming she can solve the problem of all this, this thinking-about-Paris. Which she can, she’ll just have a talk with Paris about how they can’t get married, not really, and then it won’t be relevant and she won’t keep thinking about it and she can move on and just focus on writing about Spinoza like a normal person.

“Hey, watch out!” The outside world snaps back into focus, as Rory nearly runs into a guy carrying a ton of boxes. Just across the courtyard she sees the dorm. She spends the rest of the walk giving herself a pep talk. She can do this. One awkward conversation, and then total focus on philosophy for two days, and then summer!

Rory takes a deep breath, pulls open the door to the suite and announces, “Paris, I’m ready to talk about our engagement!” Then she realizes Paris isn’t alone—Doyle has jumped off the couch (or possibly off of Paris) and his eyes are darting around the floor like there are mice all over it and he’s a cat. A skittish cat. Reflexively, Rory checks the floor for mice. No mice.

Paris clears her throat. Unlike Doyle, she somehow looks completely put-together, though a little flushed. “This isn’t really the time—” she starts, just as Doyle says “I think that’s my cue to go!” darts around the room picking up his shoes and—socks? ewww, don’t think about it—and squeezes past Rory and out the door. Paris heaves a sigh. “Okay, I guess we can talk. I have twenty-eight minutes left of my study break.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—wait, does Doyle know?”

“Of course Doyle knows!” Paris snaps. “What kind of jerk do you think I am?”

“Logan didn’t tell me his parents had arranged a marriage for him.” Rory says in a small voice. “Not until I told him about this. He said it wasn’t relevant.”

“Is that why you haven’t been out with him recently? Did you guys break up?” Paris’s voice softens, just a little. “Do you want me to kick his ass? I could kick his ass.” Paris stretches one arm across her chest, then the other.

“Yeah. No,” Rory says, finding a spot on the couch. “He’s not worth it. You should focus on your exams.” Paris nods. She’s a sucker for focusing on her career, Rory thinks fondly. “And I should too. That’s why I wanted to get this over with—Paris, you know we can’t get married, right?”

Rory hopes she’s imagining the hurt in Paris’s eyes, but Paris turns away so quickly she can’t be sure. “Does this mean you’re rejecting me? I don’t meet your high standards—well, I shouldn’t say they’re _high_ standards. Is this because you’re still mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you!” Rory says, ignoring the swell of irritation in her chest. Why can’t anything with Paris be easy? “And I’m not rejecting you.”

“I fail to see how that could be the case,” Paris says, coldly, not meeting Rory’s eyes. “Is this about my parents? My family? I know—”

“No!” Rory yells. “It isn’t about any of that,” she adds, more quietly, “It’s just, the whole thing. It’s not even you asking to get married, is it? It’s all, your parents, my grandparents, it doesn’t have anything to do with us. It doesn’t make any sense! I’m rejecting—I’m rejecting _that_.”

Paris nods, slowly. Rory hopes that this time it means she understands. “So if I were the one asking, then you’d be okay with it? You’re saying you want me to do the whole proposal thing? I admit, I was expecting a more egalitarian approach, but I can play that role, especially if you only want me to on special occasions.”

Rory buries her head in her hands. “Paris, that’s not what I meant,” she mumbles, though she’s not sure it’s audible, what with her mouth grinding against the heels of her hands.

“So what did you mean?”

Rory sits up. She can do this. One awkward conversation, philosophy, whole summer. Totally normal summer. “I mean, we’re not even dating. We’ve never dated.”

“We eat together. We watch movies.”

“But not in a dating way! I watch movies with my mom, and you don’t think we’re dating!”

“Lorelei is a very attractive woman,” Paris begins, and Rory can’t even believe she’s hearing this, “But no, that would be, like, the worst kind of incest. I suppose I can see a lack of romance in our daily life. I can work on that.”

“I’m not asking you to work on it,” Rory protests. “I’m just saying—what about Doyle?” What about Asher, Rory doesn’t say. What about anyone Rory’s dated?

“Like I said, Doyle knows. It’s a temporary thing. I’m sorry if it bothers you; I just thought you were sowing your oats, that you’d want me to sow mine too.” Paris’s voice is level. “We were planning to break it off after graduation. I could move up the timeline, if you want. He’ll understand.”

Rory fights to keep her voice calm. “No, Paris. I mean, you’re dating Doyle, right? You eat and watch movies, yes, but you also make out with him during those movies, and at—at other times. You were making out just now. We don’t do that. We’re _not dating_.”

“Marriage isn’t about making out, Rory.” Somehow Paris still doesn’t look rattled, and that’s irritating Rory more than anything. “It’s about a lifetime of companionship and mutual respect. Of course, I’d be happy to try making out if you want, but I thought you didn’t want to. And I’m okay with that.”

“You’re okay with that?” Rory says, letting disbelief creep into her voice.

“Of course!” says Paris. “I would never insist that you have sex with me. Consent is as critical within marriage as in any other sexual encounter. More so, even.”

“I meant, how do you even think you know that! How can you be okay with a thing I haven’t even asked for, or, or hinted at?” Yelling isn’t expressing Rory’s feelings adequately, so she stands up and begins to pace.

“But you have, when I kissed you, in Florida. Don’t you remember?” Paris stands up, too, but with Rory occupying their pacing area, she doesn't seem to know what to do.

“That was just a—a fake kiss! You didn't mean it! How was I supposed to know you were going to draw such sweeping conclusions?” Rory has a distant feeling that this conversation is no longer going according to her plan, but she's too upset to focus on that.

“Oh yeah? Like no one else has ever said they didn't mean a kiss when they did! I bet you would have taken it seriously if I were a guy!” Paris’s face is turning red. “I bet you would have liked it if I were Logan!”

“Okay, that's it!” Rory snaps. Without allowing herself to think about what she’s doing, she stalks over to Paris and kisses her smack on the mouth, her hands on the sides of Paris's head to keep her in place. Rory’s mind is buzzing with frustration and something else she can’t quite name, and she pushes that energy into the kiss, all her irritation and bewilderment and fondness combining to make the kiss forceful, even though both women's lips are still and nearly closed. Then Paris parts her lips slightly under the pressure Rory's applying, her eyes closing and her head relaxing into Rory's grip. Rory feels a surge of something like victory, and instinctively takes advantage, pressing them together even more firmly and opening her own mouth, flicking her tongue out to taste Paris’s lips and then the inside of her mouth. She’s winning, she thinks, although she’s not sure what the contest is. Paris moans a little in response, and her hands land gently on Rory's upper arms.

As light as her grip is, it jars something loose in Rory’s head and she pulls back immediately, breaking the kiss. What is she doing? Why did it seem like a good idea? She suddenly can’t follow any of her own thought processes, and she feels like if she stands here looking at Paris for one more minute, something awful will happen. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—I have to go,” she hears herself say, and then she's grabbing her purse and bookbag and running for student parking. When she gets to her car, she sits in the driver’s seat for at least ten minutes, just trying to get herself together enough to drive home safely. Just trying not to taste Paris's lip balm, feel the texture of her hair.

* * *

The morning after she turns in her philosophy paper, Rory is woken by a tapping sound. But louder. A loud tapping sound. Knocking? “Come in,” she calls, trying to put herself into motion. She stretches, banging into something soft at her side. What’s that? The knocking is getting louder. Why isn’t Mom just coming in? “I’m coming!” Rory says, peeling her eyes open. Oh. She’s in the living room. She must have fallen asleep watching—yeah, she definitely didn’t see the end of _Casablanca_. So the knocking is—outside? There’s a muffled shouting, too, now. Rory stumbles to the door, not bothering to turn on the lights. She fumbles with the lock and pulls it open. It’s still dark outside. It’s definitely not actually morning. But who was knocking? Is this a ghost story? Rory groans. She’s so tired. She starts to close the door again.

“Hey!” Paris pops up from one of the porch chairs. “I was starting to think you’d never open the door.”

“Paris?”

“Let’s go inside.” Paris turns Rory around and pushes her in the door. Rory automatically obeys, turning on the lamp as she goes to sit on the couch. As she’s squinting to adjust to the light, her brain kicks in. Paris is here! There is not enough coffee in the world to prepare Rory for this situation. And, wait, what’s Paris doing? She’s dragging a whole pile of stuff behind her. Should Rory be helping? She starts to stand again.

“No, you sit there. That’s good.” Rory sits, confused but willing. Paris pulls a coffee cup from somewhere in her pile. “I brought you coffee, I know it’s early.”

Rory takes the coffee. It’s hot. It’s good. “Paris, it’s not early. It’s still night.”

“It’s 4 am. That’s morning, Rory, I’m surprised that you don’t know that, what with Lorelei working in the hospitality industry and all.”

“Mom’s not really a morning person.” Rory takes another drink of coffee. It’s still good. And it must be having an effect, because she remembers to ask: “What are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you. You haven’t been home in two days.”

“I know.” Rory takes a gulp of coffee. This is it, she needs to say something to make Paris understand. “I’m sorry. I—”

“No,” Paris interrupts. “I don’t need you to apologize. Just, just let me talk, okay?”

Rory nods, slowly. This should be easier, right?

Paris drops down on one knee before the couch, taking one of Rory’s hands in hers. Okay, maybe this won’t be easier. But before Rory can react, Paris is talking, in that way she has where Rory knows that even if she tries to say something, there’s no way Paris will hear her.

“Rory, I want you to know how I feel about you. I know I can be overwhelming, and maybe offputting. I know I’m not really good with feelings and warm fuzzy stuff like that. But I love you, and I respect you, and not in the way that some frat boy would mean where he just wants to get in your pants, I mean, I really do respect you. I always have. And that’s saying a lot! Most people don’t prove themselves worthy of my respect. Most people are disappointing.

“But you—Rory, you are not most people. You’re smart, and you’re funny, and you know how to talk to people, and you choose to talk to me even though you have your choice of other people to hang out with, and that means a lot to me, Rory, it really does.” Paris is starting to get red in the face, to blink a little faster, and Rory looks away, hoping not to see if she starts crying.

“You’re—you’re _nice_ to me, and you support me in my goals, and you never let me down. And I know I’m not always as nice as you are, but I try, I really do, to do the same for you.” Rory is still looking anywhere other than at Paris’s face, which is why she notices her mother sitting at the top of the stairs. How long has she been there? She’s got to go away! Rory tries to will her to go with the power of her mind, but it isn’t working. “We’ve been so close for—for years now, it feels like we’re a team. And we’re a good team, aren’t we?” Paris doesn’t wait for an answer. “We are, I know we are. And there is no one I would rather have on my team than you. I’m sorry that’s ever been unclear to you. I’m sorry I haven’t communicated that clearly.”

Mom! Still on the stairs! Rory has to say something. “Paris, my—”

“Rory, please, let me finish. I know you don’t want an arranged marriage. I know it doesn’t make sense to you. But it doesn’t have to be about the arrangement. I’d be—I’d be saying the same things to you if that had never happened. If we were just—two girls who met at school and hit it off.” Rory, desperate to get her mother out of the room, tries waving her free hand (well, the coffee hand) around, signaling “go away” or maybe “my mom is right there,” but Paris just puts the coffee on the floor and rearranges to hold both of Rory’s hands. Rory gives up and turns her focus to Paris, looking her in the eyes. “Rory, I love you. There is no one I’d rather spend the rest of my life with.”

She puts both of Rory’s hands in one of hers, feeling around behind her with the other, and Rory is suddenly caught in the emotion of the moment, forgetting everything except Paris kneeling in front of her. She wants to lean forward and kiss her again, not run away this time. But Paris clearly doesn’t want to be interrupted, so she waits instead. We have time, she thinks. “And as you can see, from this pro-con list I prepared, the analytics are also overwhelmingly in favor of that decision. I color-coded it, so you can see what’s relevant to me, what’s relevant to you, and what’s relevant to both of us. Also, here are the markers in case you need to add something.” Paris is holding a giant posterboard. A posterboard!

Rory’s surprise bubbles out of her as laughter, and to her horror she hears an echoing laugh from the stairs. “Paris, that’s so sweet! It’s—it’s perfect!” Rory reaches for the board and the markers, trying to cover awkwardness with forward motion. But Paris’s face is frozen, her eyes round and her mouth drawn tight. Rory suddenly feels cold. “Aww, you put that you like my takeout skills. Paris?” Paris stands up, shaking herself out and grabbing for the posterboard. Rory pulls it away. “Hey, you gave that to me!”

“Not so that you could _make fun of it_!” Paris’s tone is hard, her motions jerky. “Hi Lorelei, glad I could provide you with some amusement, but I need to be going now.”

“No, Paris, no,” Rory says. “It’s not like that! Stay here, talk to me.” Rory pats the couch beside her. But Paris is already running out the door. Rory runs after her, but she’s delayed by stuffing her feet into her shoes—why are shoes so hard?—and by the time she looks up again Paris is already rounding the corner, running towards the town center. Rory looks back at her mother. “Why did you have to laugh? Why couldn’t you just have gone back to your room?” Even as she says it, she’s fumbling for her car keys.

Lorelei shrugs, a mix of apology and uncertainty. “I didn’t know whether you wanted to be alone with her. I’m sorry, kiddo.” She waves at the window. “Now go get her, if that’s what you want! She did a big thing for you tonight, you’ve gotta go do a big thing back.”

“I think it is what I want,” Rory says, darting back in to grab the poster and markers. She’s surprised by how right that feels to say. “Wish me luck!”

“Luck!” her mom replies brightly, and then Rory’s out the door, hurrying to her car. She can track Paris. She knows her better than almost anyone.

Rory drives slowly through Stars Hollow, scanning the sidewalks for signs of Paris. Her stomach is in her throat, her mind racing. Surely she won’t lose Paris just as she realizes this relationship—marriage?— _relationship_ is something she actually wants. She can’t believe she didn’t see that before. How could she be so stupid? So blinded by the heteronormative life narrative fed to her by the patriarchy? She’s so distracted by her racing thoughts and by peering through shadows for Paris that she nearly drives into the caution tape Taylor has had up for three months surrounding a tiny pothole in front of Doose’s Market. (She knows from experience that driving over the pothole itself would be fine, but the caution tape is a hazard.) As she swerves around it, her headlights illuminate a figure walking briskly along the edge of the square. Her heart skips a beat as she recognizes the determined stride. The tilt of the head. Paris.

Rory swerves again to pull up to the curb. She throws open the car door almost before she stops the car, clumsily panicking her way out of her seatbelt and the key out of the ignition. Now that Paris is right there again, she has no idea what to do. She’s not ready for this! She needs a plan. She’s a planner.

Across the street and down the block, Paris stops walking, and Rory wonders, terrified, what she just said. Then she realizes, no, worse, Paris is unlocking her car. Her car that she’s about to get into and drive away in. “Paris, wait!” Rory hears herself call out, then thinks, I already said that. It didn’t work.

She launches into a run, hoping that all the time she’s spent hurrying between class and the library and the newspaper office has improved her cardiovascular fitness to the point that when she gets to Paris’s car she’ll still be able to talk. Why does she never take Paris’s advice about getting exercise? When they’re—when this is over she’ll do better. But when she comes to a halt with her hands on the hood of Paris’s car, breathing hard, she finds her voice comes out clearly. “Paris, please, let’s—come out of there and talk to me.” Rory feels the car rumble as Paris turns on the engine. “Paris!” she yells, desperately. It doesn’t work, which she knows because she feels the car start to shift backwards under her hands. “Paris!” she yells again by reflex, as she casts around for a better plan. She throws herself forward on to the hood of the car, trying to get her legs up with her. It doesn’t work—she’s sliding down without ever having really gotten up—but it also does work, because Paris stops the car and rolls down her window.

“Are you crazy?” Rory hears Paris’s familiar tones of irritation with a wave of relief. “You could really get hurt doing that, you know! And let me tell you Rory, I am not some infantile secret-society member who’ll be impressed by your reckless disregard for your own life.”

“I know that!” Rory shoots back, making sure to keep as much of her body as possible on the car. She makes a grab for the driver’s side mirror as an improved handhold. It doesn’t work. Except it does work, in that Paris is still talking to her.

“You aren’t acting like you know it.” Paris replies, primly. “You’re acting like an idiot. In a movie.”

“Are you still upset about _Bringing Up Baby_ ? I _told_ you it was a screwball comedy. You weren’t supposed to take it so seriously.” Rory gropes her way towards the driver’s side door.

“It was irresponsible of them to treat a leopard that way. And an intercostal clavicle isn’t a real bone. It couldn’t be a real bone. It doesn’t make sense.” Rory makes vague sounds of agreement as she snakes her arm into Paris’s rolled-down window. “Also, no real paleontologist would have—What are you doing?”

“I—ah—there—this!” Rory announces, triumphant, as she pulls open the door and finally puts both her feet back on the ground. “Come on, get out of there.” She rounds the door to pull Paris physically out of the car. “Come on. Out you go.”

“I don’t—you can’t. Rory!” Paris, sputters, but she yanks her key out of the car and comes. “What are you doing?”

“Reducing the risk of flight.” Rory grumbles. There’s silence for a minute or so. Then she reaches her destination and pushes Paris into the gazebo. “Sit on the bench.”

“Um, okay, but my car—“

“Will be fine.” Rory says. She takes Paris’s hands and goes down on one knee in front of the Paris, in full view of anyone who might happen by. Of course, it’s the middle of the night and no one is going to happen by, but she figures it’s the thought that counts for this kind of thing. “Paris. I just want to tell you,” oh no, Rory thinks, she doesn’t have a plan, she’s going to screw this up for sure. She takes a breath. “that I love you. I mean, I love your lists. I mean, I love you and also your lists.” Rory thinks she’s going to pass out. “So I’m in. If you want, you know, to do this.” She waits for Paris to respond. It feels like a weirdly long wait, but Rory honestly can’t tell if that’s because it is a long wait, or if it’s because she’s entered some kind of pocket dimension where time is dilated and the gravity isn’t quite right. Maybe that would explain the way her heart is beating against her ribs. “Paris?” she finally asks. “Do you, do you want to…”

“Do I want to do what?” Paris asks, her voice brittle. “Go on a date? Do stunts on other people’s cars? Marry you? At this point I need a little more specificity, Gilmore.”

Rory is stung, but she supposes it’s a fair point. “I was thinking… dating. Not just, one date. I’d like to try dating you.”

Paris nods. “All right. What about marriage? Is that on the table here? Your posture would seem to indicate that it is.”

Rory looks down at herself. “Yeah,” she laughs, “I mean, not right now. But maybe, after we try the dating thing? It’s not _not_ on the table, I guess. I just, I’m not ready for that, you know?” Rory thinks, from what Paris said before, that she does know.

Paris nods again. “Okay. I can work with that.” She pulls Rory up and gestures to the spot beside her on the bench. “There’s just one more thing.”

“What?” Rory asks, thinking, anything, right now she could handle anything. Her heart’s still doing that thing, but it’s okay, it’s starting to feel normal—wait, actually, is this that thing about how hearts flutter when people are in love? Is it not just a metaphor? She pulls herself back into the present, looking at Paris, her serious face, her wide eyes.

“May I kiss you? I don’t want to presume—“ Paris breaks off, for once seeming unwilling to rehash Rory’s past behavior.

“Yes! Of course!” Rory blurts, before she can overthink things again.

“Okay, then.” Paris leans in, her mouth close to Rory’s. “I think I’d like to.” Her lips land hesitantly on Rory’s, warm and dry. Gentle. Rory’s heart-flutters intensify, and she automatically reaches for Paris’s arms. Paris responds by taking a little breath and leaning a bit more firmly into the kiss, her own hand coming up to cup Rory’s head from behind. It’s—nice. Soothing, almost. Rory’s attention focuses on the softness of Paris’s skin over her firm muscles, on the taste of her lips, sort of salty and coffee and a slight sourness underneath. She closes her eyes, but doing so doesn’t thrust her into the stream of her own consciousness quite as much as it normally does. She’s anchored by Paris, by her lips and hands. By their knees touching, just slightly. She could get used to this, she thinks. This could be good.


End file.
